Tag Archives: Writing

The Craft of Writing

A quote to inspire this week of revisions:

“Craft enables art.

There’s luck in art. There’s the gift. You can’t earn that. You can’t deserve it. But you can learn skill, you can earn it. You can learn to deserve your gift….

To make something well is to give yourself to it, to seek wholeness, to follow spirit. To learn to make something well can take your whole life. It’s worth it.”

– Ursula K. Le Guin, in “Steering the Craft”

This week, when I’m doing so much practicing of my craft, when I’m sitting down to look at the bones of my manuscript and how to make it as fully-formed as possible, I will remember that every writer must hone her skill. Every word I’ve ever written helps me as I face this revision. Doing right by this story means making it – and me – whole. 

I’ll let you know how it goes.


How I got the idea for my book… the Mill River Disaster

How did I come to write this book, Fly to the Hills?

About four years ago, I participated in a Teaching American History program that encouraged interdisciplinary projects. One of the speakers was woman named Betty Sharpe, and she was scheduled to discuss her book In the Shadow of the Dam. In fact, the entire day would be devoted to discussing water power and its history, particularly in the northeast. We were given an excerpt of her book – the chapter describing the flood and the heroes who, at their own peril, decided to warn residents and workers in the mill towns. It was thrilling, exciting, and a bit of local history I never knew. I quickly read her book, and thought that children should know this story. 

It took a great deal of time to figure out how to tell the story. I began researching the event, reading Sharpe’s book over and over, thinking about the various characters who show up in the true events. Another book, Sarah Kilborne’s American Phoenix also covered this dramatic flood. Two nonfiction books for adults that tell the story carefully and with great attention to historical detail. I also read some primary documents to get a feel for the time period and the response to the disaster. Overwhelmingly, the newspapers of the time and the articles that appeared on the anniversary of the event focused on the four heroes – the men who pushed their horses in a dramatic race to alert others. 

There was my hook – what if there was another hero, someone we never heard about? Who would that person be? Why was her story forgotten? This led me to create the character of Catherine, a mill girl who would have been in town on the day of the flood.

 

Okay, if this is a mill girl story, which mill? Which of the four villages did she call home? And why does she go to the mill in the first place?

 

Once I understood that the mill girls often felt great personal satisfaction by earning wages and living independently, I knew that the adventurous spirit of my mill girl would be the factor that would ultimately prod her to moments of great bravery and great empathy in the moments of death. This spirit, this drive to celebrate her independence would be one of the deciding factors in where she landed. 

 

The book American Phoenix was the impetus for placing Catherine in Skinnerville. Not only did the smallest of the villages have a silk mill which hired women, the larger-than-life mill owner, William Skinner, was a compelling character himself. Thus, I did not need to create a mill owner; he can well-formed as a beneficent employer with a fascinating history. Not only did he rise from the extreme poverty of his Spitalfields (check spelling later!) home life, he immigrated to the states and became a wealthy business owner. Furthermore, his own belief in the power of education, particularly for women, makes him likely to be encouraging of women who seek education. Furthermore, I would have set her in Haydenville if I’d thought her journey ended with a career in this mill town; Hayden, another wealthy mill owner rebuilt where his destroyed mill once stood. Skinner, however, was a shrewd businessman and rebuilt his business in a town a dozen miles away, even dismantling and rebuilding the mansion that survived the Skinnerville flood. That mimics the growing and wide-reaching goals I had in mind for my main character. 

 

Even as my research at Wisteriahurst, Skinner’s mansion, shows that his employees often showed great loyalty, Catherine’s loyalty would be to her family, and her drive to further her own education would be to support and encourage her brother to get his own education. She would not be tied down to obligations as a servant or a wife whose primary job is to “keep house” – which is why she went to work in the mill in the first place. Furthermore, she is not seeking recognition, she is seeking opportunity, and by the time the climax of the book hits, she is becoming more clear and more motivated about claiming some opportunities for herself. In accepting the lack of recognition for her role in saving lives, she is claiming something else – her own education and her new purpose in life.

 

It is only in creating the character of Catherine that I was able to move from the events of the flood, which are well-documented, and get beyond a voyeuristic view of this disaster in history. I toyed with the idea of multiple voices, each offering their own experience of the spring of 1874. Instead, I settled on a first person narration, focusing on Catherine herself. Through that choice (and others), I am attempting what I think many historical fiction authors are interested in achieving: making history real and tangible by offering the historically-accurate experiences of a character to whom they can related deeply. If I wanted to invite you to come to know the details of the flaws in dam design or the specifics of the devastation that ensued, I would have carefully crafted a nonfiction book that reproduces primary sources and offers photographic evidence of the flood. I would have offered transcripts and interpretations of the trial of the reservoir company and the dam designers. There is a place for that book, but that is not the book I am trying to write.

 

Instead, through this character-driven piece of historical fiction, I invite my readers to consider this: What if you wanted more freedom? And what if it was limited by your gender? And what if there was an opportunity to work in a mill that was safe and reputable? And what if that mill happened to be downstream from a faulty dam? What if taking your only opportunity for independence meant living with the threat of flood every day? And what if that dam gave way? WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

 

I hope that Catherine allows you to imagine the answer to that question.

 


Manuscripts

I’m at this point in my writing life – the point where I start using the term “manuscript.”

That doesn’t mean I’m using the term “working writer” but I do have a complete manuscript.  One that real people are reading. People other than my classmates, my partner, my kids, my students.  People who have a career in the publishing field.

You’d think I would feel excited!

And I do, but I also feel nervous.  Most days I feel my manuscript is so underdeveloped I might as well have given them a story written by my eight year old.  I get paralyzed with the fear of being exposed as a horrible writer.  I give in to every horrible thought I ever had about myself, as a writer, as a student, as a person.  It’s pretty horrible.

But then I remember this: when I sent out my manuscript, no one laughed.  No one tore it up and told me to go back where I came from and stop putting words to paper.  And then I remember that even if they did, I would still be putting words down.  here, and in one of my notebooks, and on the sticky notes I can’t seem to stop using.  Asking me to stop writing is a lot like asking me to stop walking.  Yeah, I did it once when I was confined to bed rest, but I didn’t completely stop, and I still walked to the bathroom, and I knew I would start back up again. 

So I go back to writing, and writing when I feel good and, now that I have deadlines for revision, writing when I feel vulnerable.

I may not be Kate DiCamillo, but I can try to write as beautifully as she does.  After all, it’s those moments of getting words down that finally add up to that elusive thing: the manuscript.  

Now, if I could only *sell* it…..


Banging Out A Picture Book

This week’s task – take four colors of construction paper and retell a fairy tale with five pages.

Deceptively simple. 

I’ve taken on Rapunzel, and enjoyed every minute of it.  I used only scissors, but if I could have found my exacto knife, it could have been even better.  But never mind the detail work, it was a fun activity and a good reminder that stories can be distilled into five scenes.  

But now I have to write a process paper to explain myself.  But before that?  The Sunday night glass of wine…


The Bird and the Cage

In writing historical fiction, I have learned a new layer of writing skills – levels of responsibility to a world I have never known, to people I will never meet, and to a truth I can’t create as I can with my other fiction.  

In his book on the sinking of the Titanic, Allan Wolf articulates it this way.

 

“In order to write The Watch that Ends the Night, I’ve allowed fancy to play within the confines of fact.  When it comes to historical fiction, history is the birdcage; fiction is the bird.”

This metaphor resonates with me, because I see that creating fiction (story that exists within our head without observable corroboration of fact) is very much like creating a bird – something that can fly and sing and actively participate in the world.   The history is far from being as static as a bird cage, but it is the container for the thing that we want to fly.  And because there is something containing it, the story is different than it would be if I wrote a story about a world that wasn’t restrained by the artifacts of the past.

I also like this bit:

“Writing a historical novel is like making soup.  You spend a lot of time gathering the ingredients, but eventually you’ve got to start cooking, even if you are missing one of two spices.”

Another metaphor that fits for me, on this day when so many of my research books can not be renewed by the library.  At some point I have to return those books, sidle up to the computer, and get down to revisions, even if I can’t imagine exactly the right turbine that the silk mill used, or whether the boots Catherine wears have buttons or laces.  Since my last draft went off to the editor, I’ve been gathering more ingredients, more ingredients, just a few more ingredients.  Now I need to dip back into the soup pot, have a taste, and start seasoning.


Great Swaths of Time!

Today I am at home waiting for my partner and twin 4 year olds to come home to have lunch with me.  It’s been quiet and I’ve been writing since 9:30 am.  That’s about two and a half hours.  Wow.  That’s one of the longest stretches of not talking to another person I’ve had in, well, nine years. 

Of course, I didn’t “get everything done” that I’d hoped to accomplish.  Of course, there is still a giant stack of books to go through on my other writing desk (the desk where writing never happens because it is covered in research books).  Of course, I want to add another 2,000 words (in edit, not in substance) before this draft goes out on Tuesday.  Of course, there are about fifteen different writing projects that have a first of the month deadline, so those are still looming.  

But get this!  I read 50 pages of primary research for my historical piece.  Important, juicy pages that added a good 250 words to my manuscript because I was so moved about one little detail from 1874.  And get this!  I finally realized that a bunch of writing books that I don’t need to read but looked really interesting can go back to the library.  I love writing books.  I love blogs about writing.  I love thinking about writing and revising what I’m going to cover in my writing workshops this month.  But those books can go back, too.  I know how to do the writing thing, now I’ve earned myself some time to do it.

So, today I’ve learned that great swaths of time are even more precious than small swaths of time.  I might as well do more of what really needs to get done, and that’s blending the research with the writing, and getting even more words to page than usual.  

That’s starting new habits, like doing core exercises as a break when my bum goes numb.  Wow – my bum went numb!  When was the last time I had that happen?!?!?


Back to School Rocks!

Three kids in school today, and then soccer.  When they aren’t around, I sure get words to paper.  I have really made progress today, and though there are a hundred other things left undone, I can stop.

Yet stopping is never comfortable.  I always want to keep going, keep finding new ways of saying what’s on my mind.

But maybe, just maybe, I will start living instead of racing between productive activities.  I’m looking forward to that little benefit of becoming self-employed.  Now, if I can just get to the making money part of the self-employed writing life, that’d be good.


Back to School

My three oldest kids are back to school today.  Today would have been the first day I taught a full day of students at the high school.

But I am not teaching this year.  Or at least, not teaching high schoolers.  

So, today is the day that I really have to become accountable for my own writing.  Today is the day I sent an email to the editor who is running my independent mentorship this semester.  By Monday my first draft (and a rough one, for sure) is off.  To an editor at a well-respected, well-known publishing company.  In the real world.  With real-world, tough-love feedback expected.

But for some reason, I am okay with it.  I know that my goal this semester is to improve my manuscript, but I also know that it may not be agent-submission ready by December. 

And that’s okay.  So here I go.  Ready to write!


The End of August

As summer winds down and I try to cram in any amount of time possible on my writing, I realize how lucky I am to have such a busy life.  

Every moment I have to make something must be used so carefully, so thoughtfully.  I used to resist this, but now I embrace it.  I cannot squander a minute, cannot waste an afternoon. There will never be a time where I am so pressured to produce as when I have no time, and that might be the best motivator around.

And the side effect is a constant tug toward my work.  Every time I close my computer, I feel a little bit sad, and I yearn to open it again.  

Imagine that – wishing you could go back to work before you’ve even stopped for the day.

Yes, indeed, having a busy life makes the writing life that much better.

 


Doing Research

My work in progress is a historical fiction piece, and I am currently moving from character development into research.

An excellent teacher and author of historical novels told me once: don’t do research until after 3pm.  This was a wise and helpful statement, underlining the (obvious) notion that one could get so lost in the history that she cannot get words written on the story.

It’s true that sometimes that happens, but with my five children I have found that my research must be crowded into certain days where I can leave home, settle into a library, and find out new tidbits about life.

That’s exactly what I did this week, and I did it before lunch.  I went down to the library, sat by the very river that flooded in 1874, and tried to imagine what the little town looked like so many years ago. This, as lovely as it was, wasn’t extraordinarily helpful.  Instead, gathering the books that map the town, the diary that outlines the experiences of a teenager, the video of a play in the church that was the temporary morgue – these things are more helpful for providing inspiration and images to my story.

While writing historical fiction, the accuracy of the details is key but the power of the narrative is the frame.  If I am to give my readers an experience to help them remember these people who perished, I must give them a mix of the two.  

So I go back and forth, flip-flop, writing poetry, taking notes, listening to the rhythms of the songs written in honor of the flood.  And sooner or later, I will have enough to share, to have answered those whispers that filter up through the dust:

“Tell my story.  Don’t let them forget.”